


Save the Citizen

by HalfDime



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Citizen, Competition, Disney Movies, Firebending, Flying, Games, Gen, Gym, Heroes, Heroes to Villains, High School, Jungle, POV First Person, Present Tense, Reality, Reality Bending, Save the Citizen, Sports, Superheroes, Superpowers, Supervillains, Teen Angst, Teenagers, Tournaments, Villains, super strength
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfDime/pseuds/HalfDime
Summary: Save the Citizen was always the most popular game at Sky High. It was never meant to be lethal. But when Calamity, a brilliant student struggling to control his powers, takes the ring, traditional rules are cast aside and the safety of the entire school is compromised.





	1. Chapter 1

I pull on my gloves and strike a battle stance. Faking a few punches and preparing some trash talk, I hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that lines the wall. My pose, my actions, my black and red body armor all give me a new persona; a persona that looks significantly more intimidating than I feel. Granting myself a final glance in the mirror, I scowl, tense the muscles in my hands, and will the air around me to form a gyroball between my fingertips.  


The corners of my mouth slowly rise into a triumphant grin. Even though odds are against me, it seems as though I’ll be able to put on a good performance. That’s all that matters anyway. Not the game; not the result; the spectacle. If a competitor goes down with a show: banter; bloodshed; ruin, it doesn’t matter which team they were on or how poorly they fared. They’re still a hero the rest of the day. That’s what I want to be: a hero.  


“Bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded, and the score is tied,” I say to myself. “Electricity is in the air, ladies and gentlemen, as glorified Will Stronghold steps up to the plate and exchanges glares with the underrated and misunderstood newbie Calamity.” I scowl at my reflection and pantomime resituating a baseball cap. “Calamity winds up for the pitch,” focusing on the effect of shattering glass, “and...” I throw the gyroball against the mirror. It hits its target with astonishing speed and the face of the mirror melts into water, swamping the locker room upon contact.  


I sigh.  


Without the mirror, the room’s fairly empty. They’ve left some sports drinks and energy bars out for the competitors, but I don’t feel like eating. Still, I take a Gatorade and gulp down the bottle. Indulging in the taste of liquidized plastic, soon all that remains is the Gatorade, which still retains the shape of what had been its container.  


Another heavy sigh. Not much to do now but wait for the call.  


Anxiety turns to terror as time creeps by. I try to force my attention on the battle outside, on the sound of clashing metal and rustling bushes, but distracting myself from the situation at hand only seems to intensify my fears. Especially when I’m listening to Coach Boomer’s commentary blaring in the background. Horrible images form in my mind as I hear things like “Taking risks, aren’t we?”, “Ha ha! I thought he had it there!” and “That’s go’nna cost ‘em some time in Nurse Spex’s office!”  


I’ve seen people get hurt in this game. Like, hospitalized hurt. Rumor has it people have been paralyzed before. Save the Citizen is not a game you take lightly. Especially not during the tournaments.  


A muffled knock on the wall makes me jump. “Calamity, you there?” someone hisses from the other side. It’s Emma Tate, the girl who’s assigned to be my partner.  


I press my ear to the wall. “Yeah, I’m here.”  


“Good. Step back for a second.” The wall opens up and Emma emerges, smiling.  


“Emma,” I say, “you shouldn’t be here.”  


She laughs. “Please. It’s not like you’re naked or anything.”  


“I could’ve been.”  


"Right. As if you didn’t have enough time to put on shoulder pads and a breastplate. I swear Calamity, if it took you any longer to get dressed, you’d be a girl.” She laughs. Her eyes widen, though, when she looks around the room. “What happened here? It looks like a typhoon swept through.”  


“I was practicing. I tried to control my powers and it didn’t work.”  


“Oh.” She understands. I’m not the only one who has powers they can’t control. But that doesn’t make me any less frustrated.  


“So what are you doing here?”  


“You know perfectly well that on the other side of the gym Warren and Will are planning a strategy to defeat us. You don’t think it’s fair if we had a little bit of time to prepare ourselves?”  


“Not when we’re breaking school rules to do it. You’re not allowed in the boy’s locker room!”  


She waves her hand dismissively. “Please. We’re the villains. And in a real battle, the villains always have the most time to prepare.”  


“I’m no villain,” I say through gritted teeth.  


Emma looks over me sympathetically, taking care to avoid eye contact. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”  


_Of course it’s not,_ I want to say, but don’t. It would come off as sarcastic and snarky, and we’re supposed to be a team. So I shrug it off instead. “Don’t worry about it. I get that a lot.” Still, I take several deep breaths before I continue. “So how did you get in here anyway?”  


“Wally Gable.” Emma smiles at me as though this is supposed to mean something. “You know: the guy who can walk through walls?”  


“Oh. Right.” I didn’t know there was someone in the school who could do that, but it doesn’t surprise me either. If you looked hard enough, you could probably find someone here who could do just about anything. Take Emma, for example.  


Emma’s a copycat. She has no natural superpowers of her own but instead imitates the powers of the last person she sees. They don’t even have to show her their powers; she just has to make eye contact with them. That’s probably why Emma’s avoiding eye contact with me right now. Because if she did, she would have my powers and lose Wally’s, and she’ll need those to get back to the girl’s locker room before anyone finds out she was in the boy’s.  


“So what’s the plan?” I finally say.  


“You tell me. You’re the strategist.”  


“Well . . .” I have to think about this. Save the Citizen is a fairly simple game, but there’s still lots of strategy involved. Four students, called competitors, are evenly divided into two teams, heroes and villains. Over the course of several minutes, the heroes will try to immobilize their opponents and rescue a plastic dummy that has been suspended over some sort of death machine. As the villains, it will be Emma’s and my job to stop them. “. . . If I were Will, I would fly up and save the citizen before the game really begins. It’s less climatic that way but, for their team, it’s also a lot less dangerous. Will won’t want to have to outmaneuver you in flight.”  


“So you want me to take Will’s powers and guard the citizen?”  


“Exactly. Don’t worry about Warren. I’ll take care of him.”  


“But what if Will doesn’t let me make eye contact with him?”  


“Get it. And if all else fails, find someone else who can fly in the crowd. I know Skye West and Ariel Kurtaneck are both experienced fliers.”  


“And what are you going to do?”  


I smile. “Win.” I wave my hand, and a chessboard inadvertently materializes on the bench. All the pieces are sitting in their starting positions as if they’re waiting for a game. “Chess?”  


“Huh?”  


“Chess,” I repeat. “You know how to play, don’t you? It doesn’t look like they’re going to be ready for us anytime soon, so why don’t we have a quick game?”  


She stares at me blankly. “Fine,” she finally says.  


My smile deepens. I knew she was going to say that. That’s the problem with Emma – she’s too predictable. Right now, she’s trying to make up for offending me. Referring to me as a strategist; agreeing to play a game of chess are all part of a bigger plan – one to unite us as a team before the real game begins.  


Not that I don’t respect that. I’d much rather have a teammate with a plan, even a plan that goes against my own, than an idiot who acts randomly.  


Emma and I take our places on opposite ends of the chessboard. “I’ll go first,” she says, sliding a white pawn up two spaces.  


The first few turns are made in silence. The board changes as pieces are moved in and out of formation. I let Emma take several of my pieces, and she, in turn, loses many of hers. The game continues. I sacrifice a pawn for a pawn. Emma advances with a rook. I take control of the back corners. Emma is forced to move forward. I push my queen up several spaces.  


“Why would you do that?” she asks, taking my queen with a bishop.  


“Because sometimes, you have to lose the battle to win the war.” I advance with my knight, and she takes it with a pawn.  


“Is that what you do? Make sacrifices until you win?”  


I force a rook over three spaces, practically slamming it against the board. “I’m not a bad guy!” I must have a wild look in my eyes, but there’s no way Emma could know that. She’s still avoiding eye contact. “Checkmate.” I stand, pushing the board away.  


Emma sighs. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying that there are other ways to win without making such drastic sacrifices.”  


“Are there?”  


She doesn’t answer.  


“Do you want to know something? I’m one of the greatest strategists this school has ever seen. Mr. Medulla has put me against some of the simulations that are only intended for seniors. I’ve beaten the Quarantine Simulation, the Sapphire Simulation, and the Wartime Simulation. I can manipulate situations when I have all the variables; I can see things coming that others just can’t.”  


She smiles at me and shrugs. “You’re the best.”  


“Not if I lose.”  


“We’re just children. Children are allowed to lose.”  


“We’re not children. None of us here are children. Children should be running around, shooting basketballs, playing videogames, and… I don’t know. I don’t know what childhood looks like, but this is not it.”  


Emma furrows her brow. Eventually she shrugs.  


“Why did you come here?” I demand.  


“What? The fact that I wanted to prepare a strategy isn’t enough for you?”  


“Not if it’s a lie. I can’t very well coach this team if my teammate’s feeding me lies.”  


She purses her lips. “I don’t like being alone,” she says simply. “Why did you sacrifice your queen?”  


“I had to lose the battle to win the war.”  


“I don’t believe you believe this is war.”  


“I don’t care what you believe.”  


“Then you wouldn’t care that I lied.”  


She has a point. But I don’t tell her that. “Only one person has ever won Save the Citizen as a freshman,” I say instead. “Ever. In the history of Sky High. That person’s name: Will Stronghold.”  


“So?”  


“So how can I win? I’m literally playing my first game against the only person who has ever won their first game. And now he’s a junior. And now he can fly. And I don’t even know how to control my powers.” We fall back into silence. “They’ve stacked the odds against me, you know.”  


Her expression melts. “Calamity, that’s ridiculous.”  


“Is it? I’m a freshman, Emma, a freshman. This is my first game of Save the Citizen ever. And it’s during a tournament. If we win, we won’t go back to the stands. We’ll have to play again, and again, and again. And we’re playing our first round against Will Stronghold and Warren Peace, arguably the greatest team ever to walk the halls of Sky High.”  


“You know all this is random.”  


“Bull. Boomer’s not drawing names from a hat. He has no random name generator. He’s choosing.” She can’t be that naive, can she?  


“Okay.” The sympathy falls from her voice. “Let’s say you’re right, and Coach Boomer’s stacking the odds against you. Why would he put us together? Why wouldn’t he pair you with someone who’s, for all intents and purposes, useless, like... I don’t know, that girl who can blow bubbles out her ears?”  


“You don’t understand your powers any more than I understand mine. At least a bubble blower has control.”  


“We can do anything,” she says.  


“_You_ can do anything,” I correct. “I can just get angry and hope something good happens.”  


“Calamity, you’re being ridiculous. If Coach Boomer really was stacking the odds against you he would’ve given you the harder job as a . . .”  


I raise an eyebrow.  


“. . . a hero.”  


I look at the ground. My eyes lock on my reflection, rippling in the water. “They’ll be calling us any minute now. You should get going.”  


She must feel pretty bad for me because she doesn’t press further. The wall opens up, and she starts to head back to the girl’s locker room.  


“Oh, and Emma?” I’m rolling the white queen gently between my fingertips. When she turns around, I toss it to her. “Don’t screw up.”


	2. Chapter 2

The wall seals itself once Emma leaves. I hope she realizes I was just joking when I told her not to screw up. My mom says it can be difficult to tell when I’m being serious and when I’m being sarcastic, and I would hate to have put some sort of rift in our team before the game even begins. People just don’t seem to understand me. And my superpower doesn’t help.  


But that’s not a topic I like to get into.  


Anyway, I wouldn’t consider Emma a friend, but she doesn’t openly despise me, either. Maybe that’s why Boomer paired us together. Because, despite what I want to believe, he truly thinks there’s a semblance of a chance we might work well together . . .  


“And the winners are . . . McGinnis and Travarow!” The audience burst into cheers as Coach Boomer finishes his announcement. “On deck let’s have Lawler and Roose versus Cilan and Edgecombe.” There’s a small pause in the background. I imagine Boomer scribbling something on his clipboard as McGuinnis and Travarow high five. The losers will be taking off their armor and returning to the stands. They’ll be praised and encouraged there, but will undoubtedly be mocked for the following week. “Next up we have Peace and Stronghold versus Calamity and Tate,” Boomer continues as more cheers resonate throughout the gym.  


That’s my cue. I take one last breath, stand, and leave the locker room.  


Sparse piney woods consume much of the gym. Usually, this game is played in a boring cityscape, but every so often – usually before tournaments – the school will ask students to adorn the gym. Once they imported sand and had someone who could control the weather direct a blazing sun through the windows. The result was a burning desert. Last semester they had a cryokinetic girl – Crystal, I believe her name is – turn the gym into a frozen wasteland. Today’s arena, whose theme is Jungle Hijinks, has been provided by that flower girl, Layla.  


Plants protrude from the fake forest floor. Surrounding the basketball courts are large glass walls, dividing us from the bleachers. At the center of the arena, suspended above a crater of “boiling hot magma”, is a plastic dummy, rhythmically calling for help in their monotonous electronic voice. When the game begins, this dummy will steadily be lowered to their demise. That is my goal: to ensure the dummy is killed.  


Another surge of applause breaks through the gym as Will Stronghold and Warren Peace emerge from the boy’s dressing room on the opposite side of the arena. Unlike Emma and me, they’re wearing neatly trimmed white and blue body armor. They’re smiling confidently, waving at the crowd. Emma was right: they’ve worked out some sort of strategy.  


Not that I’m concerned. I can fight other strategists. I can’t deal with people who are reactionary, or worse, act emotionally. I just can’t prepare for randomness. And human emotions are random.  


“Hothead, Stronghold, you know the drill,” Coach Boomer calls from the referee chair. “You have five minutes to immobilize your opponents and save the citizen. Ready?”  


Warren and Will shrug. Emma nods at me reassuringly.  


“Set.”  


Emma forces her gaze on Will as the rest of us get into position. And . . .  


There’s the sounding gong. Warren and I charge at each other, full throttle, before we come to a halt in the middle of the arena. We both have our fists raised, daring the other to move.  


“Ready, freshman?” Warren says through gritted teeth.  


_Freshman . . ._ He must not know who I am. No doubt he’s heard of the school’s new reality bender - the boy who brings his school supplies to life and once turned a pot of chili into molten lava – but doesn’t realize that’s me. If he did, he’d be cowering in fear, just like everyone else in this blasted school.  


As a reality bender, most people think I can do anything. Far from it. My powers are actually fairly useless in combat. Most of the time, I just sneeze confetti or turn rain into chocolate milk. Cool party tricks, I guess, but somewhat lacking in a real-world application. Especially when you consider I have no idea how to control my powers.  


My potential is limitless. My skills are lacking.  


Warren must have gotten tired of waiting for a response. He punches to the left, which I dodge easily enough. Falling forward, he pivots around, and his hands begin to flicker with light.  


“I wouldn’t,” I say, gesturing towards the vegetation.  


Warren’s eyes dart across the room, weighing his options. When he turns to me again, his hands are their natural skin tone but his fists do not lower. Ten seconds in and we’ve already reached a stalemate. Warren can’t light a fire with all these plants around, and I’m far too nervous to use my powers.  


In a way, we’ve been reduced to the human level. Not that I’m not thrilled. Unlike me, humans have control, and control is something I can work with.  


Warren tries for another punch. As his body shifts forward, I duck, twisting beneath his arm and coming up behind him. He’s fast. In one fluid motion, he pivots around and throws his weight into another attack. I’m not quite sure what he’s doing – half tackle, half punch? – but I block it with my forearm.  


In hindsight, I’m glad I decided to take Unarmed Combat as an elective. It might not be the most enjoyable class I’m taking, but it sure is proving useful. Weeks of being beaten up by stronger, faster opponents has made my body reactive. When he kicks, I dodge. When he punches, I block.  


But he’s still too fast. I barely have time to avoid his attacks. Supposedly, after you dodge a punch, the attacker is thrown off-guard for a split-second. I keep waiting for this opening, but Warren doesn’t seem to have this issue. He is always balanced, always on-guard, and keeps advancing.  


He outmaneuvers me. I try to stay in the open, but he backs me into a wall. I don’t like walls. They constrain me. I can’t find any openings to attack, either. But it’s not like he gets a hit in. We’re both just being worn out.  


“Will – you – just – sit – still?” he grunts between attacks.  


There’s got to be something cool I can say back. Some comment that would make a perfect comeback . . . I can’t think of anything. I make a mental note to take a witty banter course next year.  


Warren backs me into a wall, feinting a punch. I roll beneath his arm. I must’ve caught him off guard, because something flashes in the corner of my eye, and when I turn to him again, he’s clutching his left hand.  


“Smart move,” he says.  


I raise my fists. “What” – the pieces suddenly come together – “because I didn’t roll away from you? I saw what you were doing with your other hand,” I lie.  


Suddenly his foot is connecting with my nose, and I’m doubled over in pain.  


“But did you see what I was doing with my foot?” he asks. "Not so big and bad anymore." And he goes in for another kick. I intercept mid-strike and launch him backward. He falls flat on his back and is now sprawled across the ground.  


It occurs to me that I could probably make some backhanded comment about how I was never bad. Like I said, this game isn’t about winning – it’s about the spectacle, and delivering a smooth line about how I’m not a villain would certainly be spectacle.  


But sadly, there isn’t time to word it. Warren’s getting up. I kick him in the abdomen, forcing every wisp of air from his lungs. A collected gasp resonates from the audience. Warren falls back to the ground, sputters, and coughs blood. I’m on my toes, circling him like a buzzard. When he tries to get up, I kick him in the neck. Another gasp.  


I keep expecting Coach Boomer to call foul, but he never does. I keep attacking. Blood springs from various parts of Warren’s body. His ribcage. His face. His jaw. His back. Between his legs.  


“Calamity and Tate are not letting up, folks!” Boomer announces. “Looks like Peace and Stronghold are getting a run for their money!”  


Emma? It didn’t even occur to me to wonder what she’s doing. She must be doing well because if Will had saved the citizen, Boomer surely would’ve said something by now. But then again, Boomer’s not a particularly good commentator. In all this time, I would’ve thought he would’ve mentioned something about my fight with Warren . . . I look up.  


Emma and Will are both in the air, hovering around the center of the arena. Will keeps trying to dive-bomb Emma, who’s the only thing between him and the citizen, and is clearly getting frustrated. He seems to be hesitant about attacking, probably because Emma’s a girl, but his movements are quickly becoming more aggressive as Emma’s becoming a more experienced flyer. Her originally choppy, uncontrolled movements are quickly becoming more directed and intentional.  


But something’s wrong. Will keeps moving left and right, up and down, trying to find an opening. Emma’s fairly adaptable; she follows Will without problems. When he shoots up, she shoots up. When he moves left, she moves left. But she’s hesitating. Especially when Will shoots down.  


Of course. Will’s hovering above the audience. Emma’s going out of her way to make sure she doesn’t look down because if she inadvertently makes eye contact with anyone but Will, she’d fall from the sky.  


Will seems to have realized this too because he’s noticed the audience and grinned. He shoots into the sky and suddenly plunges toward the ground. On his way down, he grabs Emma by the waist and cranes her head toward the audience. Thank God she had the forethought to close her eyes.  


But it doesn’t matter. Emma and Will break through the canopy, bearing down on us hard. When they hit the ground, earth erupts in a shower of dirt and plant matter. Warren and I hit the deck just as the concrete slab rips apart. Trees are uprooted. Debris rains from the sky. Part of the wall shatters beneath a fallen tree. Shards of broken glass shoot in every direction.  


And then it’s over. Emma and Will emerge from a newly formed crater, disoriented but alright. I survey my new surroundings.  


We’re now standing in what I can only describe as a large clearing. Dirt has been upturned; rocks have been exposed. The concrete slab has a twenty-foot scar running down the middle as if someone tried to split it in half. Trees now lay in shambles as broken logs and splinters. A large tree has taken out part of the glass wall, but no one in the audience seems to be hurt.  


“The game has changed,” Boomer announces, as casually as if someone had made a free-throw. “Hothead’s back in!”  


“Wait, what?” I say aloud. “Warren was never out of the . . .” I take another glance at our surroundings. Not a single tree stands vertically. “Oh, crap.”  


Warren staggers forward. The flash of his thin smile reminds me of a dagger being unsheathed. Flames rise in tendrils up his arms. He brings his hands together, smiling, molding the fire in his hands. He then takes a step forward, throwing the fireball.  


It’s only the size of an orange, but when I look behind me, a side of the wall has erupted in flames. He throws another. I scuttle backward. The ground at my feet singes, exactly where I would’ve been had I not moved.  


He advances with every attack. And when he’s only a few feet away, he brings his hands together and kneels down, shooting a thick stream of flame from his hands.  


Emma lunges at me, shielding me from the blaze with her body. She must have knocked me to the ground, because the next thing I know, I’m staring at the ceiling through a thick stream of fire and hair, an intense pain radiating throughout. Not the pain of being roasted, but the kind of pain that comes from being thrown hard against concrete, every wisp of air being ripped from your lungs, and an overwhelming sense of fear.  


The flames subdue just as I begin to realize that I’m lying in a halo of blood. Scrambling to a sitting position, I cast Emma aside and glance over at Warren, who seems to have given himself a moment of rest before his next attack. I take the opportunity to assess my injuries: a few scrapes, minor burns, and a small gash on the back of my head. Thank God. Nothing that requires my immediate attention.  


I barely have time to react before another flare erupts. Half dropping-half falling to the ground, I instinctively tuck into a ball, using my arms to protect my wounds from the fire. Funny, the blood trickling down my neck now feels thick and cool. No, not blood. Paint. Red paint.  


The second flare ends abruptly. It catches me off guard; only moments ago Warren had been closing the distance between me and his flames. I mean, I get the impression that these flares require a lot of effort on Warren's part, but I would’ve thought he would’ve finished the job.  


This time though, Emma is kneeling, her body directly in Warren’s line of fire. Silently willing the flames away, it seems as though she’s cast an invisible force field inches from our bodies. I still feel as though my insides are being cooked, but it’s nothing compared to the pain from before.  


Of course. Emma’s made eye contact with Warren. She’s become a pyrokinetic. She must be manipulating, repelling, the fire, bending it around our bodies.  


“Go!” she’s suddenly yelling at me. “Get out of here! Take care of Will!”  


The intensity in her voice takes me so off guard, I comply. I turn only when I hear a fatal screech. Emma. I watch in terror as she’s engulfed in flame. I don’t know what happened; pyrokinetics are supposed to be fireproof, but it doesn’t matter. I pick up a decent-sized rock and knock Warren in the back of the head. He crumples to the ground.  


“Thanks,” Emma says as I pocket the now blood-stained rock. I have no idea what happened back there, but I can’t find a single burn on her body.  


“You idiot!” I yell, dragging her to her feet. “You left Will in the air unguarded! What were you thinking?”  


She chokes back a sob. “I just –”  


“Get up there and guard the citizen!” I can only hope that Will has glanced our way, so Emma has a chance to make eye contact with him. No such luck. Will’s not paying any attention to us. He already has the citizen cradled in his arms, corkscrewing the room in a sort of victory lap. Eventually, he lands and sets the citizen down. Turning toward Emma and me, he and Warren square up, raising their fists.  


Anger rises in my chest. I know the feeling all too well. Something’s going to happen. Something weird. Something I can’t control. One time, I accidentally sent an ottoman to attack my sister. Another, I reversed gravity, so anyone who entered my house was walking on the ceiling for a week.  


I should try to fight it. But I don’t. I let the anger fester in my stomach and wait to see what will happen. I imagine Will being hit on the head by a 30,000-ton toaster; Warren drowning in a pool of chocolate fondue. The possibilities are endless.  


Warren charges. I focus my anger, tighten the muscles in my chest, and . . . nothing. Warren keeps coming. No time to question it. I raise my fists and prepare to fight when the audience gasps. Warren screeches to a halt and begins looking around the room. I lower my fists and survey my fellow competitors. None of them have moved.  


That’s when I notice the citizen. It’s on its hands and feet, floundering awkwardly as it tries to figure out how to work its joints.  


Emma and I lower our fists. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not this. Warren and Will hesitantly lower their fists, looking around the room. Eventually, their eyes land on the citizen.  


It seems to have figured out how to stand. It scans its surroundings.  


“Save me,” the citizen says in that electronic monotone I’ve come to associate with Sky High citizens. Then it holds out its hands and starts examining its fingers, wiggling each one in turn. When it seems satisfied with its motor control, it staggers over to Warren and falls into his arms. It just looks up at him, cocking its head uncertainly. “Save me?” it asks.  


Strands of melted plastic stick to Warren’s hands as Warren pushes it away.  


The citizen cries out in pain. “Save me!” Staggering backward, it examines its body and panics. I can hear its gears double in speed, racing like a human heart. “Save me!” Running to the edge of the arena, it clumsily clambers up the side of the wall, trying to escape the gym.  


Warren throws a couple of fireballs at it before Will stops him. “No, don’t. Don’t forget: we’re the heroes.”  


The game has stopped. Emma, Warren, Will and I look from the dummy to Coach Boomer to each other. No one says anything. Even the audience seems to be paralyzed with confusion. This has to be a Sky High first. I, personally, have never known anything like this to happen before, Coach Boomer is silently trying to compose instruction, and the rest of the student body is slowly awakening from their daze with agitated conversation.  


Boomer’s voice suddenly echoes through my mind. _“You have five minutes to immobilize your opponent’s and save the citizen.”_  


The timer’s still going. There’s over a minute left. Neither Emma nor I have been immobilized. And the citizen has not been saved.  


Barely thinking, I sprint after the dummy. The ground sags beneath my feet, as though I’m running across the face of a trampoline. When I reach the edge of the arena, I jump, launching myself ten feet in the air, easily clearing the wall. Then, in one fluid motion, I land in the bleachers and continue my dash, leaving the gym.


End file.
